


Without You

by wallaby24



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-10 21:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11700642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallaby24/pseuds/wallaby24
Summary: After the deaths of both of her parents, Theresa begins to fear losing Philip as well.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to politicaltestudine, who's helped me plot all of this and imagine every scene!

“Guide me, O thou great redeemer, pilgrim through this barren land,” the congregation sang around her. “I am weak but thou art mighty, hold me with thy powerful hand.”

But Theresa did not merely feel weak; she felt as though she had already crumbled and disintegrated far beyond where God could reach her. Her own voice was silent; she was not sure she would ever sing again.

Today’s funeral was exactly like the others she’d been forced to attend in recent months: same church, same hymns, same priest presiding. Perhaps their own church in London would have been a more sensible place, but she didn’t question the setting.

Because there was one massive difference that made this funeral another universe from her parents’. Today, she was alone. There was no Philip sitting beside her, his hand gripping her knee with a steadying pressure, no Philip taking her hand when it began to tremble, no Philip whispering in her ear that he loved her. She was alone on the front pew…as she would be for the rest of her life.

She could not help but stare at the casket in front of her, at her husband’s lifeless form. It didn’t make her cry; nothing made her cry. She was too _numb_ to cry. It was almost a consolation to see him, and she felt a rising panic at the thought that an hour from now, he’d be buried and she’d never see his face again in this life. She had a sudden urge to call out to the priest to halt the funeral, to stop this nonsense, because she couldn’t possibly bury her husband. She _couldn’t_ , and she glanced frantically around her, searching for an ally. Did she even _know_ any of these people?

What had happened to Philip, exactly? She was suddenly confused as she tried to remember. It had been a bus accident, hadn’t it? Or no…he’d had cancer, and it had taken him quickly. Or perhaps…

The church was beginning to swirl around her, the music fading…the people disappearing. Had she been left alone here? Well, of course she was alone. She was widowed and orphaned; what difference did the presence of other mourners make?

She heard Philip’s voice call her name, but he was clearly dead before her. Was she losing her mind? She tried to answer him but couldn’t speak, tried to move but her feet were cemented to the floor.

She struggled, and then suddenly she was blinking her eyes open in the dark of her bedroom…and Philip was sleeping peacefully beside her.

Theresa took a great gasp of breath as she awakened. Had she been…dreaming? The realization didn’t ease the sensation that she was drowning, but of _course_ she’d been dreaming. She dreamed of Philip’s death several times a week now. She’d done that for months, since her mother had died.

Oh, it wasn’t always the same dream. Certainly not always a funeral. She’d dreamed he was sick and likely to die, she’d dreamed she’d come home to find him dead on the couch of an undetected brain tumor, she’d dreamed of a knock at the door and a policeman telling her her husband had been killed in a traffic accident. Sometimes she dreamed she was at his bedside, watching him die; sometimes that she knew he’d be dead soon; sometimes that he was already gone. And then last week, there’d been that equally horrible one in which he wasn’t dying but leaving her, and he told her he never wanted to see her again.

But none of it was real, she told herself. They were all just dreams, and— _look!_ —Philip was right next to her, the picture of health.

Nothing had happened to him. Nothing was _going_ to happen to him.

But what if it did? What if she lost him and were left completely alone in the world? Tears filled her eyes as she remembered how real the funeral had felt, and she furiously blinked them away, afraid she’d cry and wake him.

She wanted to reach out and touch him, assure herself that he was real and not just another dream, but she couldn’t do that either. Because Philip couldn’t know.

Philip had, in her view, put up with far more than any husband should have to in the past year. First she’d lost her father suddenly and shockingly, then he’d helped her oversee the care of her sick mother…who had then died, too. He’d held her and comforted her and cried with her and supported her as she’d grieved, and she was not blind to the fact that none of it was what he’d had in mind on their wedding day for the beginning of their marriage. She used to be fun. She used to laugh with him. They used to go out for date nights where they enjoyed each other and enjoyed the evening. But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt fun. Her goal now was simply not to cry too much.

In light of all that, it struck her as terribly unfair to drag her husband into her new anxieties as well. He shouldn’t have to be awakened when she had nightmares about his death; he shouldn’t have to hear her complain about how stressful any separation from him had become; he shouldn’t have to deal with her constant, irrational fear that he would be knocked down by a bus. It was almost childish, she thought, like the little girl she had once been who had needed to be carried into her kindergarten class weeping from the trauma of leaving her mother. She was far too old for some sort of ridiculous separation anxiety from her husband…her husband who had dealt with more than his share of her emotions in the last six months. It wasn’t right for her to pile more of her issues onto him.

And so she did not do what she wanted to do, which was snuggle close to Philip and draw comfort from his arms…suppose he woke enough to wonder at her stricken expression? Yet she also knew she wouldn’t return to sleep, not when her breath caught in her throat at the thought of having the same dream over again. She never went back to sleep afterwards. She hadn’t slept well in months.

Theresa rolled over for a glance at her alarm clock—4:30 a.m. She’d have to be up in an hour and a half anyway, and she had might as well get up now. She could do with a bit of light now anyway, to fully dispel her dream, and she gingerly got out of bed and crept to the kitchen.


	2. Chapter Two

_5:26._ Theresa drummed her fingers on the kitchen table, her eyes on the clock over the oven. Philip should be home any minute now, and then she could finally be at ease.

She _hated_ the workday. Separation from him always made her anxious, even if it were she that were out while she knew he was safe at home. But it was so much worse when Philip himself was out in the world, exposed to its dangers and free to meet with any of the risks her mind could imagine.

The worry would begin as they left for their separate journeys to work in the morning. Suppose Philip were in a traffic accident on his commute? Suppose he tripped and fell onto the Tube’s tracks? Her stomach didn’t stop churning until she’d had a chance to ring his office and hear from the secretary that he’d arrived in one piece.

On good days, she could then stay reasonably calm until the evening rush hour, assuring herself that he was safe in his office, and feeling nothing worse than the general stress of being separated. But of course, there were also days when she struggled to keep her mind on her own work, because what if Philip’s office building had caught fire? What if today was the rare day he left for lunch, and he’d been run over by a bus? What if he’d suddenly collapsed from a previously-undetected heart issue? And on and on her imagination would run, until she’d be forced to ring him personally, just to hear the sound of his voice and reassure herself that everything was still all right. She’d never told him why she sometimes phoned him midday, of course, and she’d begun to sense he was growing annoyed with an interruption that had ceased to feel like a sweet, surprise hello.

Today had been one of those days. She’d finally caved around 11:30 and rang his number, only to be further frightened when the line rolled to his secretary instead.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. May; Mr. May left for lunch a few minutes ago. Would you like to leave a message for him?”

Left for lunch? He didn’t need to leave for lunch; she’d packed him a sack lunch just that morning. She’d been making his lunches for weeks now, with the double motivation of encouraging him to eat in the safety of his office and of making up for the good wife she was otherwise failing to be.

“Yes, please,” Theresa said, feeling every muscle in her body tighten at the thought of her husband wandering the streets of the City. “Please ask him to ring me when he gets back.”

She skipped lunch herself, of course, too nauseous at not knowing where he was to eat a bite as she watched the clock and waited for him to ring. In the end, she hadn’t been able to wait and had desperately phoned his office a little over an hour later, and he’d picked up.

“I thought you were going to ring me when you got back from lunch,” she said breathlessly. “Didn’t you get the message from Sylvia?”

“Yes,” he said, and she winced at the irritation in his tone. “I’ve just walked in—I’d literally just sat down at my desk when the phone rang. What is it?”

“I just…why did you go out for lunch?”

“What?”

“Why did you go out to lunch? I sent a lunch with you today.”

Philip sighed. “I know, and I appreciate that, but my boss wanted to continue a conversation over lunch, and I didn’t think I should say no, and I thought it would keep for a day in the fridge. It will, won’t it?”

“Well yes, but…”

“But what?”

Theresa chewed her lip. It wasn’t about the lunch, really. It was about the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be risking himself in traffic any more than necessary, or going places without telling her, and she did not want to say either of those things.

“Why had you rung in the first place?” he asked after a moment’s silence on her end.

“I…just wanted to check in. Say hello.”

Philip sighed again, and she held her breath. She _knew_ he didn’t like this, so why couldn’t she make herself stop?

“Look, Theresa, I’ve really got a lot to do this afternoon.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I know. I’m sorry,” she babbled, feeling her cheeks redden. She quickly extracted herself from the conversation and hung up, but her embarrassment was outweighed by her relief.

Having heard his voice had calmed her throughout the afternoon, but then of course the end of the workday had come, and her anxiety had begun to gnaw at her again as she imagined his evening commute. Their schedules were such that she was nearly always home a good half hour ahead of him—a half hour she spent with her eyes glued to the clock, silently begging him to walk through the door.

As she was doing now. The hands had crept past 5:30, and it was exceedingly rare for him to not be home by 5:30.

Of course, he could have worked late. Or been held up by a colleague on his way out of the office. Or been stuck in a traffic jam, or caught by a Tube delay. She knew all of these explanations were more likely, but that didn’t negate the possibility that he’d been killed in a terrible accident, and she could not help but fixate on the latter.

5:35. Her stomach began to ache as she watched the second hand continue ticking its way around, but she was used to that. She was used to stomachaches and headaches and backaches as she worried.

At last, at 5:54, she heard the door open at the front of the apartment, and it was all she could do not to weep with relief at the sound of his voice calling out, “Theresa?”

“In the kitchen,” she called back, trying to keep her own voice from wavering. She heard him putting his coat in the closet, and then he popped into the kitchen, his own face portraying no concern at all.

And suddenly, she was angry. Why couldn’t he just show up on time? Why couldn’t he call if he was going to be late? Why couldn’t he be a little considerate? Why did he have to be home late on the same day he’d waltzed off for lunch without a care in the world? Why was he gallivanting around the City while she was at home, her hands shaking and her stomach churning as she fretted over his well-being?

“You’re home rather late,” she said, her voice cool.

Philip raised his eyebrows as he leaned against the doorframe. “I wasn’t aware I had to clock in at a certain time.”

“Well, you’re usually home by 5:30. And as you can see,” she said, gesturing toward the clock, “it’s gotten quite a bit past that.”

“So this is like work now?” he snapped, and she remembered that he was likely already annoyed with her over the lunchtime call. “I’ve got to follow a prescribed schedule? Tell me, what happens if I’m ‘late’ too many times? Am I reprimanded? Do you write me up? Does it go in my file?”

“No,” she said slowly with a patience she did not feel. “It would just be nice if I knew you were going to be home late.”

He sighed. “Theresa, it’s not even 6:00. If I was going to show up at eight…yes, of course I’d call. But why am I on such a short leash that I have to warn you about _twenty minutes_?”

Was she really asking all that much? She just wanted a _phone call_. “I just want to know where you are,” she said, hearing her exasperation creep into her voice.

“You’re right, you do want to know. You _always_ want to know where I am. It’s _incessant_.”

“I–I don’t think I—”

“You _do_ , Theresa. I don’t have a moment’s peace anymore—and if I do, I’m interrogated about it later. Where was I? How long was I gone? Am I going anywhere else? For God’s sake, I feel like a teenager who’s missed curfew!”

His own anger fed her own, and she stood up from the kitchen table. “Why can’t you just tell me where you’re going? I shouldn’t have to wonder—“

“You _don’t_ have to wonder! There’s nothing to wonder about! I go to work. Sometimes I go to lunch. Sometimes I work late. Where the hell do you _think_ I am?”

“I don’t _know_! That’s the _point_! I don’t know, and I worry—”

“You worry _what_? What do you have to worry about?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out…because that was the question she couldn’t answer.

“I’ll tell you what you _worry_ about,” Philip went on, moving out of the doorframe and slowly closing the gap between them. “You worry I’m having an affair. You think I’m cheating on you. Don’t you?”

She gasped and drew back, not so much insulted as utterly _stunned_. How could she possibly think Philip was having an affair? She knew he loved her—indeed, that was why she was so worried about him. He was the last person left on earth who loved her.

“Don’t you?” he demanded, and she shook her head, horrified at the very thought. “Dammit, Theresa, _answer me_!” he shouted, slamming his hand down on the kitchen table, and she jumped. She’d never heard him yell before—certainly not at her.

“No! No, I’d never think that! _Of course_ I don’t think that!”

“Come on, Theresa, tell me the truth…what else would explain all this? You watch me like you’re training for work with MI6. You _always_ have to know where I am and why and when I’m coming home—because you’re afraid I’m seeing someone else on the side. Why else do you ring my secretary _every morning_ to find out if I arrived when I was supposed to?”

“I didn’t know you _knew_ ,” she breathed, stunned that her calls had all been reported to him.

“Of course I knew! Do you think it’s _normal_ for spouses to ring the office and ask for our arrival times? Do you honestly think _you’re_ normal? And of course, you then have to call again before the day’s over and make sure I’m still at my desk. That’s _crazy_ , Theresa.” She swallowed hard, fighting the lump that had risen in her throat. Yes, she knew she was crazy and irrational and an emotional wreck, but she certainly didn’t want _him_ to see all that.

“What is Sylvia _supposed_ to think?” he ranted. “What do you think my whole _office_ thinks? It couldn’t be clearer that my own wife doesn’t trust me—which is great, considering I’m in _banking_ , for God’s sake.”

She hadn’t thought of that—she hadn’t thought of _any_ of this. The possibility of Philip cheating was so far from her mind that it had never occurred to her that her behavior would make her look suspicious, but of course it did, to an outside observer. Of course it did.

“I’m sorry,” she said earnestly as tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m sorry; I didn’t think, I didn’t realize—”

He talked over her, his voice still raised. “Why are you always so insanely insecure?”

Theresa drew in her breath at that, trying to pretend it hadn’t hurt as much as it did. She didn’t _want_ to be insecure; heaven knew how she tried _not_ to be. But it was Philip who gave her the confidence and the support to fight it, Philip who had always been so, so patient with her. She hadn’t known how much it annoyed him.

“And just out of my idle curiosity,” he went on, “who is it you think I’m sleeping with?”

“I don’t think that! I promise I don’t!” Desperately, she seized his hand with both of hers, and he stiffened at her touch. “Please, Philip, listen to me. I don’t think you’re having an affair. I promise, I’ve never thought that!”

He yanked his hand away. “Then _what_ ,” he shouted, “is _wrong_ with you?”

The question felt like a punch in the stomach, and she recoiled as though he’d struck her, staring wide-eyed at him. The answer, of course, was _so much_. In specific, she was an emotional basketcase with the separation issues of a two-year-old, and in general, she was awkward, shy, plain, a terrible wife in recent months, difficult to like and certainly difficult to fall in love with, and probably unworthy of him. She was the mousey, dull girl of whom it had been said at Oxford, “Why is Philip with _her_?” She was the wallflower who had wondered at the time if her very popular boyfriend had been settling for her, or—worse—was only still dating her because he felt sorry for her and couldn’t figure out how to extract himself.

Theresa did not doubt there was a great deal wrong with her. But what she had not known was that Philip agreed.

It has always been Philip who had argued against all of her insecurities, who had laid a finger to her lips every time she had listed out everything she didn’t like about herself, who had been outraged when she’d told him how much of their circle at university viewed their relationship. It had been Philip who had told her time and time again that she was wonderful and he loved her and there was nothing whatsoever wrong with her, and it cut her deeply to hear that she had managed to show him otherwise.

His own face had not softened, and she looked down at the floor in an attempt to hold back her tears.

“I can’t stay here,” she heard him mutter after a moment’s awkward silence. “I’m going out.”

For dinner? For the night? _Permanently?_

_Not the latter,_ she thought frantically. _Please, God, not that._

“When will you be back?” she squeaked, chancing a look back up at him.

His only answer was a glare that made her tears finally spill over, and she turned away, hating for him to see her fall apart.

His footsteps stomped out of the kitchen, she heard him wrench open the closet and yank his coat out, and then the front door slammed shut with an angry _thud_.


	3. Chapter Three

“ _What_ is _wrong_ with you?” Every time the words repeated themselves in her head, a fresh round of tears gathered in her eyes, and it seemed to hurt worse with each repetition. Because, of course, Theresa identified with the question completely: what _was_ wrong with her? People lost a parent every day without turning back into toddlers. It was also a question she had quite literally been asking for years: why was she dull and awkward and embarrassingly shy?

Philip had always told her she was none of that, vehemently denying that there was anything undesirable in her. Until tonight.

But the sting of his words was minor in comparison to what she thought might be coming. “I can’t stay here,” he’d said at the end. She prayed desperately that he’d only meant tonight, that he couldn’t stay right there, in that kitchen any longer and argue with her…not that he couldn’t stay in their apartment at all, in their marriage. That he’d decided it wasn’t worth it, and he’d be moving his things out next weekend. She’d more than once tonight felt her chest tighten at the thought, her heart pounding and her hands shaking as she gasped for breath, the world spinning around her until she’d have to lie down on the couch and close her eyes until the nausea passed.

Because she could not _imagine_ Philip divorcing her. She couldn’t bear to be left permanently alone.

“Philip,” she whispered to their empty bedroom, his name slipping from her lips with no real motivation as she clutched his pillow to her chest.

She’d only lain down half an hour ago, but she knew there was no question of falling asleep with Philip gone. She’d never slept without him home, not since they had married…in fact, only once had she spent a full night in bed alone, she thought, remembering the time last winter when she’d had a horrible, horrible cold, and Philip had offered her the whole bed so that she could stretch out and make herself as comfortable as possible while he slept on the couch. But she’d doubted in the morning that much of the latter had gone on…he looked like he’d been awake most of the night, and she had hazy memories of someone adjusting her pillows, rubbing her back, and giving her sips of water as she tossed and turned in her drugged sleep.

The memory of being nursed all night only made her cry harder. Had she ever even thanked him for that? Or had she been as selfish as she had been in her grief and in her anxiety?

Oh, where _was_ he? Even if she hadn’t been weeping, she was far too anxious for the sleep her body craved, her stomach twisting in knots with worry, her heart nearly stopping each time the wind blew the rain against their window and she remembered that the roads were slick and it was dark. What if something happened to him? It would be entirely her fault after making him angry, and the guilt and the grief would kill her.

“Please send him home,” she prayed aloud. “Please, please, please let him come home safe.” Was she being heard? She’d been praying all evening, begging God to save her marriage, to bring Philip back to her, to keep him safe tonight. She’d begged for comfort, too, and for peace, and she’d had none of either.

It had been, quite simply, the evening from hell. After he’d gone, she’d cried and cried and cried. Then she’d realized how badly she wanted to call her mother, and her grief had mixed with her fear and her hurt to leave her sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. This was how it would be without Philip…she’d be completely, utterly alone with no one to turn to.

She’d turned instead to her faith, trying to comfort herself, as she’d been taught, with her favorite psalms, and unburdening herself to God. It would calm her for a period, but then she’d think again of how much she missed Philip, and how desperately she wanted him there in the flesh to comfort her, and she’d cry again.

It had been Philip that had gotten her through the grief of her father’s and mother’s deaths, Philip who had held her and kissed her and told her to cry as much as she needed to. She could hear him now telling her that it was all right to be sad, and she didn’t have to force herself to smile for his sake. She’d loved him for that, for letting her grieve and take her time with it.

But it had changed her in his eyes, she knew. She was embarrassed to admit to herself that she couldn’t remember the last time her husband had initiated sex. She’d tried to make it a priority, not wanting to deprive him and thinking it was an opportunity to make up for being a terribly neglectful wife otherwise as she grieved. She’d done everything she thought he liked in bed and more, but he’d pushed her further and further away, and she’d stopped offering because it was so humiliating to be refused. He hadn’t suggested they make love for weeks and weeks.

At the time she’d suspected her grief had made her unattractive and undesirable, but she wondered now if it was just _her_ that was unattractive and undesirable. If perhaps he just didn’t want her anymore at all, at least partly because of how incessantly she had nagged him.

She’d screwed this all up horribly, terribly, and likely irreparably, and the awful irony would be that the end result of her anxiety would be that she _would_ lose Philip—not because he would die, but because he would leave her.

Eventually Theresa had forced down a bowl of cereal for dinner and then crawled into bed alone, where silent, exhausted tears continued to pour from her eyes. Her pillow was soaked through.

And then, at last, she heard the sound of the front door opening, and she nearly choked with relief. He was home! He hadn’t been killed on the road, and he was _home_! She took a deep breath, trying to still her tears so that she could call his name without him knowing she’d spent the evening weeping. It was all she could do not to get up and run to him as she listened to him putting his coat away, but she knew he was likely still angry with her, and this would not be well-received. He was not going to wrap his arms around her in bed and hold her tightly, the way they often liked to sleep, but he would at least lie down with her, and that would be comfort enough for now.

“Philip?” she murmured softly as his dark form stepped into the bedroom. He grunted in response, and her stomach tightened, but at least he was home with her. At least he was safe.

She watched as he undressed in the darkened room, stripping down to his shorts and then pulling on an old Oxford Uni t-shirt—familiar attire that calmed her, steadying her breathing. But then…what was he doing in the armoire? Why was he getting an extra blanket? She squinted, not sure what she was seeing.

Silently, he shut the armoire door and headed back across their room toward the door without so much as a glance at their bed.

“Philip? Aren’t you coming to bed?” She clenched her jaw to keep her voice from wavering.

Another grunt. “I’m sleeping on the couch. Good night, Theresa.”

He shut their door behind him as another wave of tears swept over her.


	4. Chapter Four

Philip had been an absolute prat last night. He’d known that at the time, in fact, but he’d taken a perverse pleasure in it, and that made him feel especially ashamed. His anger had seemed so justified, so righteous last night, because how dare Theresa behave this way when he’d been so kind to her?

Except he hadn’t been kind yesterday. In the harsh light of Friday morning, it couldn’t have been clearer that his own behavior had been inexcusable. He’d purposely hurt his wife, intentionally mocked her insecurities, and made her cry. Then he’d capped the debacle off by spending an evening growing angrier and angrier in a pub, and then ignoring her tearful plea to come to bed, stomping off to the couch like a complete twat. What on earth had been the matter with him?

He’d been in the right originally, he thought. He’d had _every_ right to be annoyed at what felt like constant surveillance, especially with the way it had begun to interfere with his work, and it had been very natural to think that she suspected him of adultery. But why hadn’t he taken her at her word when she’d denied that? Why would she lie instead of taking the opportunity to confront him? Now that he had calmed down, he could see that made absolutely no sense. Philip could also easily see a more innocuous explanation for Theresa’s behavior: after all the stress she’d been through with her mother’s care and eventual death, it wouldn’t be odd for her to want rigid structure. Which didn’t give her the right to drive him crazy, but it could have been addressed far more sensitively.

They’d tiptoed around each other as they’d gotten dressed that morning, giving each other a wide berth, and Theresa’s hurt had been clear in the way she wouldn’t look at him. How could he have spoken to her like that the night before? How could he have ever done anything to hurt her? He would have struck anyone else who treated her that way.

The worst bit had been after she’d left for work herself, and he’d found a neatly packed lunch sitting out for him on the table by the coat closet, as usual. He hadn’t deserved that, especially not today, and he’d slunk out the door with it practically burning his hand.

He’d felt like a criminal all day and had spent most of it longing to be home, where he could apologize to Theresa in person and tell her how horrible he had been to say the things he had. And then, of course, they could have a rational discussion about all the phone calls and nagging.

Now, finally, he was home, and he pushed the front door open, noting that his wife was home already as usual, or it wouldn’t be unlocked. “Theresa?” he called as he stepped inside the apartment, but then his eyes fell on her immediately. He’d expected her to be in the kitchen, having a cup of tea or poring over a cookbook, but she was seated instead on the couch in the front room, still dressed in the suit she’d worn to work that morning. She usually changed when she got home…did they have plans tonight that he’d forgotten about?

But Philip dismissed that thought as soon as he’d had it, for it wasn’t just her clothes that were strange. It was her face, her posture, her whole figure…she was perched nervously on the edge of the cushion, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her face ghostly pale. The dark circles under her eyes and the thin line of her mouth, as though she were suppressing nausea, suggested she was ill, but then why was she sitting around in good clothes?

“Are you all right?” he asked, moving to put his coat away and hearing the silliness of the question as he voiced it. Of course she wasn’t all right. Every bit of her appearance was quite wrong, and he was unsettled. She looked sick, but she wasn’t. Something in him knew she wasn’t.

Theresa shook her head, one hand going to her neck to nervously finger her pearls. “I have to tell you something.”

This was about last night, he knew with certainty, and he was suddenly more frightened than he was guilty. Slowly, he shut the closet door and turned to face her again.

“I wanted to say,” she said, her voice measured and determined, “that I know I’ve been a really bad wife.”

_“What?”_

But Theresa held up her hand for silence before he could argue. “I know I am. I’m an awful wife, but I’m really sorry, and I’m going to try to do better.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “But I worry about you, because I’m really scared that I’m going to lose you, the way I…” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard.

He didn’t need her to finish that sentence, though: he could hear quite clearly that the ending was, “The way I lost my parents.” Why hadn’t he seen this before? She wasn’t afraid he was having an affair; she was afraid that any second would bring a policeman to her office or to the apartment to inform her that her husband had been killed in an accident, just like her father last autumn. Of course she feared that. Theresa lost someone she loved every few months; of course she thought that pattern might continue.

“I’m really sorry,” she went on, her voice unnaturally high. “I promise I’ll stop. But can you please, _please_ not leave me?”

Oh God. What had he _done_ to her? He couldn’t stand there and dwell on it, though. Theresa was breathing as though she’d just run a marathon, and then her face crumpled, huge sobs overtaking her. He’d never seen her cry like this—he’d never seen _anyone_ cry like this—and he rushed to her side.

Her whole body seemed to be weeping, as though her sobs were beginning in her toes and forcing their way up to her throat, and he didn’t understand how she could possibly breathe through them. She had bent toward her knees with the force of it, and he sank down next to her on the couch, pulling her against his chest as she curled further into herself.

“Oh, my darling,” he breathed, holding her close, “that’s not true; that’s not true. You are a _wonderful_ wife, and I love you. I love you, and I would _never_ leave you. Don’t let yourself think that. Don’t let yourself think that. It won’t happen; it won’t happen.”

Was she hearing him? He wasn’t sure she was aware of anything beyond her own weeping, and he tightened his grip, hoping that would calm her. “Shh, I’m not going anywhere. I love you. You’re all right. I’ve got you.”

“I’m s–sorry,” she choked. “I’m s–sorry.”

“No,” he said firmly, “you have nothing to be sorry for. Don’t be sorry.” _He_ was the one who was sorry. What sort of insensitive twat was he? How on earth had he not seen this? How had she gotten to this point without his noticing? He had clearly taken terrible, terrible care of the most precious person in the world, and he wanted to weep, too. Instead he kissed the top of her head and began to rock her slowly, murmuring over and over again that he loved her and hoping the words would register. There were more choked apologies from her every few minutes, his heart twisting each time—especially when she added, “for making you mad.”

Eventually, she slowly seemed to catch her breath, her sobs easing into exhausted tears as her body relaxed against him. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I know I’ve been awful.”

Philip laid his hand on her head, cradling it against his chest. “Sweetheart, you haven’t been awful. You’ve been a wonderful wife, and—”

He felt her head shake against him. “I’m hard to live with and I’m never happy and now I’ve made you angry. And I…” She trembled as another sob escaped. “I would understand if you—if you left, but please don’t. _Please don’t;_ I can’t—I can’t bear it.” She seemed to choke for air again, and he tightened his arms around her.

“Theresa, I need you to listen to me.” She whimpered slightly, and he pushed her up and away from him, holding her by the arms so that he could look her in the eye.

Dear God…he didn’t know what he had expected, but she was a _mess_ , her eyes so red and swollen that he could barely tell they were green.

“Are you listening?” he asked gently. She nodded, her lip trembling. “I will never, ever leave you. You don’t ever have to worry about that. I gave you my word, and I meant the vows I took. Nor would I ever _want_ to leave you…I love you so, so much.”

He was horrified to see her shaking her head. “Not when I’ve been so _annoying_ lately.”

“Sweetheart, I was really wrong last night. I shouldn’t have shouted at you; I shouldn’t have even been angry, and I’m so sorry. I misunderstood what was going on, and I really, really overreacted.”

“Oh, Philip, never mind last night!” she burst out. “You don’t even want to have _sex_ with me! You haven’t wanted me in _weeks_.”

No, they hadn’t had sex in weeks, but… “That’s not true…I’ve been _aching_ to have you!” He’d lost track of how many times a day he thought about it, but he couldn’t let himself ask for intimacy his wife so clearly did not want.

But if the hurt on her face as she looked away were any indication, he had misunderstood that, too, and she _had_ wanted it.

“Don’t, please,” Theresa said, her voice growing thick with tears again. “Don’t say that when you don’t mean it; it’s humiliating.”

“No, baby, let me talk to you about this.” He laid his hand on her knee and squeezed it. “Let me tell you what happened with sex. I didn’t think you were enjoying it. You didn’t _seem_ to be enjoying it after…after your mum died—”

“I wasn’t,” she interrupted. “I was just trying to make sure it was good _for you_. I knew I wasn’t a very good wife in any other way, so I was trying really hard in bed for you, and I was trying to do everything you liked, and new things I thought you _might_ like, but—”

“Which is why you seemed so stressed,” he said, half to himself.

“I just wanted you to _like_ it,” she said. “But you never seemed to.”

He stroked her knee with his thumb. “Of course I liked it, sweetheart. I _love_ sleeping with you—there’s never anything I’d rather be doing. You didn’t have to do anything special to make me happy in bed. But I could tell you were…stressed, and tense, and not enjoying it the way you used to, and I thought you didn’t want intimacy right then. I felt like you were just doing it for me, and I wasn’t comfortable with that. I should have just said something, but I thought if I refused, you’d be relieved and stop suggesting it. And of course, I certainly wasn’t going to ask you for sex—it would have felt like I was forcing you, and I couldn’t stand that. I felt gross just thinking about it.”

“I thought you didn’t want me,” she said softly.

“Darling, I always want you. _Always._ You’re hot and sexy and you have an incredible body and I always want to see you naked. Let me be clear: I want to have sex with you 24/7. Literally all the time.” She was starting to smile, and he went on, “I would be happy to rip your clothes off _right now_ and have sex with you right here if I thought you felt better.” Theresa laughed through her tears and let him embrace her again, settling against his chest.

“I’m so, so sorry about yesterday,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I’m sorry I was so angry, and I’m sorry for everything I said.”

“That’s okay. I understand why you were so upset. And I’m sorry I’ve nagged you like this.”

He shook his head. It wasn’t okay—he’d said horrible, cruel, hurtful things—but he didn’t think now, once she’d finally quit crying, was the moment to review all of them with a specific apology. That could wait for tomorrow.

“Don’t be sorry, Theresa.” He kissed her again. “You’ve been through hell—of course you’re anxious.” Her behavior, he thought, was almost normal when compared to his own obtuseness in not grasping it. How could he have missed what was going on? How could he have made her feel that she had to hide this from him? How could he have failed her so desperately?

“I’m just so scared of losing you,” she whispered. “You’re the only person left on earth who loves me.”

The words felt like being knocked flat, and he knew she heard his sharp intake of breath and felt the sudden tensing of his muscles. He didn’t, in the heavy silence that followed, know quite what to say. His first instinct was to disagree, and tell her how loved she was by his parents, by her own grandmother, by friends. But he knew that wasn’t what she meant—her grandmother would surely not live a great many more years, and she would be unlikely to have a long-term relationship with his family if he were gone. Nor did Theresa tend to form close friendships, and attempting to argue otherwise would have only been patronizing.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said after a moment, hugging her tighter. “I love you, and I promise nothing will happen.”

“You can’t promise that,” she said quietly, and of course it was true. He could be careful, and he could take care of himself, but he could not promise that he wouldn’t be killed in an accident or be diagnosed with terminal cancer next week. “Statistically unlikely” was not a guarantee.

“No, but I can promise not to leave you, and I can promise that I’ll look after myself. And I can promise we’re going to work through this together, so that you’re not so scared all the time.”

_All the time._ As he considered the frequency of her phone calls and her interrogations, it was clear that Theresa was anxious any time they weren’t together. She had had to worry constantly…how had he missed this? How had he let this go on?

She was quiet for a moment, and then said, “I’m so tired,” which he heard as a plea to have this conversation tomorrow. “I haven’t slept…I didn’t sleep hardly at all last night.”

His stomach twisted with guilt again. “I’m so sorry, darling. Were you too upset to sleep?”

“At first, but then when I did…” She paused. “I…I have nightmares. A lot now. About…about all this. But they were worse last night, and then I didn’t _want_ to sleep.”

And, of course, she had woken up from them alone while he pouted on the couch. Philip wanted to punch himself.

But it hadn’t been just last night, had it? This had surely gone on many times while he slept unknowingly beside her.

“Why didn’t you ever wake me?” Why hadn’t she ever told him _any_ of this?

“It just…it didn’t seem fair. None of this is fair to you.”

“None of it’s fair to _you_. Darling, I want you to tell me when you’re upset and when you’re frightened. I want to know so I can help you.”

“You don’t mind if I wake you?”

The least he could do after all this was wake up in the middle of the night. He kissed her again. “No, sweetheart, I don’t mind. Please, wake me.”

She nodded and fell silent, her head resting against his chest, and after a moment, her eyes began to close.

“I think you need to lie down,” he said softly. “Maybe let’s have dinner, and then you can go to bed?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes as she sat up. “I’m tired, and I’ve got an awful headache. I’ve had it all day.”

Of course she did. She’d stayed up most of the night crying.

“Why don’t I get you an aspirin, then I’ll order us a pizza, and then after dinner we’ll get you to bed.”

She nodded. “I’ll go wash my face.”

Dinner was a quiet affair, with Theresa scooting her chair right next to his so that she could be as close as possible. She frequently laid a hand on his knee and gave him a watery smile, and he gently patted her hand. It simultaneously touched him, broke his heart, and made him feel terribly unworthy, for he did not think he quite deserved her affections after the way he had treated her twenty-four hours earlier. She seemed quite happy though merely to sit silently next to him.

It was still early when they finished, especially for a Friday night, but he was aware that Theresa desperately needed sleep, and he was also aware that he could not send her to bed alone. And so he got into his pajamas when she did and lay down next to her.

“Do you think if I hold you while you sleep,” he said, “that you’ll be less likely to have nightmares? Because you’ll know I’m here?” He had been thinking about this all evening, dreading the thought of her having another dream after the day she’d had.

“Yes, but…are you sure you don’t mind?” _Mind?_ How had she gotten the impression he minded comforting her?

“Of course not. You don’t ever have to ask twice to be held, Theresa,” he said as he reached out for her.

“I love you,” she whispered softly once she had settled into his arms.

“I love you, too. Never doubt that, darling,” he said, beginning to play gently with her hair. “I love you so much.”

Within minutes, her breathing had deepened, and he knew she was asleep. He, of course, was not, and the tears he had been holding back all night finally began to trickle silently down his cheeks.


	5. Chapter Five

She was rushing, hurrying through the doors of the hospital and breaking into a sprint once she reached the proper hallway. She had to get to him, she _had_ to get to Philip in time.

She’d made it with her father, flying out of London when she’d gotten the call about his accident and reaching his bedside in Oxfordshire in just enough time to speak to him before he passed. And now that Philip…she wouldn’t miss the same opportunity with him. She could grieve later; now she had to see him.

There was his room—somehow, she knew it was his room—up ahead, but…a nurse was stepping out of it, and quietly closing the door.

Theresa instantly felt the temperature drop. “I’m here to see Philip May,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Do you know him?” the nurse asked coldly.

“I’m his wife.”

“You’re his widow. He’s dead.”

“But I needed to see him,” she said, as though arguing might change the facts.

“You’re too late. You should have gotten here sooner.”

Theresa tried to answer, tried to push past her, tried to cry. But she couldn’t breathe and couldn’t move, and the next thing she knew, she was awake and sitting up in bed and gasping for breath.

And there Philip was, asleep beside her, and the realization eased her panic.

 _I don’t mind,_ she could hear him saying. _Please, wake me._ It was what she had been aching to do for months, and she lost no time in gently shaking his arm. “Philip?” she murmured, trying to hold her voice steady.

He blinked up at her in the darkness, frowning slightly as he tried to make sense of the moment. “Theresa?”

“I–I had a dream,” she whispered.

“A dream?” Then comprehension dawned on his face as he shook off the last bit of sleep. “Oh, of course. A dream. Oh, my darling…do you want the light?”

“Yes, please,” she said, realizing it as he suggested it. She always needed light to convince herself she was awake and the present was real.

Philip turned to switch on the lamp on the bedside table, then rolled onto his back again. “Why don’t you lie down, sweetheart?” He held his arms out, his eyes soft as he looked up at her.

She didn’t need telling twice and lay back down next to him, her body fitted along his and her head resting on his chest, the first of her tears beginning to spill over as his arms wrapped tightly around her.

“Oh, my darling,” he whispered again, and she knew he could feel the wetness against his shirt, for she wasn’t weeping audibly. “It’s all right; I’m right here. Do you want to tell me about your dream?”

She could distantly imagine that this might be helpful, that she might want to talk these things over at some point in the future, but not now. Not tonight, when she was still thoroughly drained from the day she’d had.

“No. No, I can’t!” she said, hearing her voice crack.

“Shh, that’s all right, that’s all right.” She felt his hands stroking firmly up and down her back. “We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want. It wasn’t real, and I’m right here. I’m right here. Everything’s all right. That wasn’t real.”

She couldn’t stop crying, and she couldn’t stop her dream from replaying in her head, but oh, how much better this felt than to sit alone in the kitchen in the middle of the night, her hands shaking as she tried to tell herself that she was awake now. How much better to feel his arms around her and hear his reassurances, rather than the hollow ones she tried to give herself.

But somehow, that realization only made her cry more.

“I d–didn’t even get to–to talk to you!” she choked. “Like…like…” But she trailed off, because she couldn’t talk about this anymore. She certainly couldn’t talk about her father’s death tonight.

She felt Philip kiss the top of her head, and she knew that he had imagined instantly what exactly she had dreamed, because he knew how significant it had been to her that she had at least been able to speak to her father.

“It’s all right, Theresa. I’m right here, and nothing has happened to me. I’m safe, and I’m right here.”

He held her silently for a few minutes, rubbing her back as she clutched his shirt and tried desperately and unsuccessfully to still her tears. “Sweetheart, you need to get back to sleep,” he said eventually, giving her another kiss.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She rarely ever slept after a dream.

“Don’t be sorry. I just think you need the rest.” He paused. “What if I sang to you? Would that help you?”

She was not musical herself and she would not have thought of that, but she had always loved the sweet sound of Philip’s singing voice, and so she nodded against his chest. He was quiet for a moment, and then began to softly sing, “Be still, my soul; the Lord is on thy side. Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain. Leave to thy God to order and provide; in every change, He faithful will remain…”

The old hymn immediately brought her parents and a childhood spent in a church to mind, but the memories were calming ones, and she felt a quiet peace beginning to slip over her as he finished the first verse and moved on to the second. She felt her body relaxing as her tears slowed, and her eyelids grew heavy, closing before the end of verse three.

Theresa woke naturally and easily the next morning, with an unfamiliar sensation that she recognized as _rested_ , as though she had slept soundly for the first time in a long while.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she heard Philip say as she blinked her eyes open, and she focused slowly to see him sitting up and smiling down at her.

“What time is it?” she asked, aware from the tone of the light pouring in the window that it was no longer early.

“It’s half past ten,” he said, stroking his hand through her hair. “You were sleeping very soundly. Are you feeling better this morning?”

Half past ten??? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so late. But… “Yes, much better.” Her headache was gone, and she felt perfectly and utterly calm, for the first time in months. “I haven’t slept so well in forever.”

“I’m glad, darling.”

“Did you just wake up, too?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve been awake for a couple hours. But I didn’t know how long you’d be, and I didn’t want to get up and have you wake up alone.” And so he’d laid there, she realized, and simply waited for her.

“Thank you.” She smiled back at him and sat up herself, propping her pillows behind her and then snuggling into his side. “It helped a lot to have you awake with me last night.”

“You can wake me anytime you need me.”

She kissed his cheek, thinking of how loved and safe she’d felt lying in his arms as he’d sang to her. “I dreamed…I dreamed you had been in an accident. And when I got to the hospital, you were already…gone. They wouldn’t even let me see you.”

Philip began to stroke her hair. “Yes, I imagined it was something like that. But it wasn’t real.”

“It always feels real while it’s happening.”

He sighed. “I know, darling. I wish I knew how to help you.”

“You did help me. Your singing…” She felt her throat constricting with unshed tears again at the memory. She’d been sung to sleep like a child, and she could not imagine anything making her feel more loved.

His hand stilled on her hair, pressing her head close to his chest.

“I’m glad you know about all this now,” she said when she could speak again. And she was…there was so much peace in having told him and in knowing she wouldn’t have to hide her worry.

“I’m glad you told me.” He kissed the top of her head. “Will you tell me why you didn’t for so long?”

“I…didn’t want you to see what a mess I was. I didn’t want…I’m… _broken_ , and I thought…I was afraid…”

“I won’t ever leave you,” he said firmly, a catch in his own voice. “I will never leave you, and we are going to get you through this together.” She heard his words from last night: _You don’t ever have to ask twice to be held._ She had heard in the sentence a promise to always be ready to hold her, and she believed him.

“It’s also…it’s so…childish,” she said quietly, feeling herself blush. “It’s not normal to have some sort of… _separation anxiety_ as a grown woman.”

“It’s not normal to lose your whole family in less than six months, in your twenties,” he responded. “So we’re very much outside the normal, regardless, and I don’t think what’s _normal_ is particularly helpful here. I think your reaction is perfectly understandable, and I should have figured it out before now. You’ve certainly got no reason to be embarrassed.”

Her mind eased further at the sincerity in her words. How wonderful to be given permission to feel as she did, permission not to be ashamed, permission not to hide this.

After a pause, Philip said, “How would you feel about seeing a counselor and talking about all this?”

Theresa was silent for a moment, partly hating the idea and horrified at the suggestion of saying anything personal to a stranger, but also aware that she desperately needed help.

“I…I’m not sure I would like that.”

“But do you think it might help you, if you could talk to a professional?”

“Could you go with me?” She cringed as soon as the words left her mouth, feeling like a five-year-old.

But Philip merely kissed her. “Of course I would, darling, if that’s what you want.”

She nodded and snuggled deeper into his side. There was simply so much peace in cuddling with her husband, in having him in her bed, in knowing that he knew it all and was not put off, in realizing that he was not the least bit sick of comforting her, in having been told that he would do everything in his power to help her. She hadn’t felt so relaxed since before her father’s death.

“I had been thinking,” he said after a few minutes of silence, “of getting up before you woke up and making you breakfast in bed, but I didn’t want to risk you waking up alone. But would you like me to go make you some now and bring it to you?”

“No, let’s get up and make it together.” As sweet as the idea was, she would much rather continue to be near him this morning.

“Are you implying I’m hopeless in the kitchen?”

She grinned, remembering the times she’d stumbled on Philip trying to cook in the midst of a warzone he’d accidentally created. “No, I’m implying I want to cook _with_ you!”

Theresa had never been cuddled so much while she tried to cook. On another day, it might have been annoying, but this morning, it was absolute heaven to have her husband embracing her from behind while she cooked the bacon, stroking her arm while she heated the beans, or caressing her back while she fried the eggs. She was fragile and broken, and she wanted to be held and touched, to hear him whisper that he loved her, to nuzzle against his neck. And if the edges of their breakfast got a bit blacker than usual as a result, so be it. She didn’t want a perfect breakfast nearly so much as she wanted to hear that he thought she herself was perfect, for she was still fighting hard to push the sting of certain of the words he had spoken Thursday night from her memory.

When the meal was at last ready, he insisted she sit down and let him serve her, and when he sat himself, her heart leapt at the way he copied her position during dinner last night, scooting his chair close to hers. How much better she felt this morning!

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, and she realized her eyes were filling again.

She nodded. “I’m just happy. Because I love you, and I know you really love me.” _And_ , she added silently, _I know you’re not leaving me._ She didn’t think she could have ever imagined what a relief it would be to have him know, and react with sympathy instead of frustration.

“I do really love you,” he said, embracing her and kissing her nose. “I love you so much darling.”

The meal passed almost entirely in silence, and she was happy with it that way: it was more time to snuggle up to Philip, more time to contemplate how relieved she was, more time to enjoy the simple peace of this morning. But then, as they were finishing, he spoke again.

“Theresa,” he said, a hesitation in his voice that implied he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask this, “last night…after you fell asleep…I wondered…”

“Yes?”

“What happened after I left on Thursday?”

“Well, nothing,” she said, nonplussed at the question. “I guess I just…cried. That’s all, really.”

His body seemed to tense. “All night?”

“Yes, I suppose…or most of it, anyway. I prayed some. And I…I wanted to call my mum.” She dropped her eyes to her lap, trying to hide the tears that had sprung up at the memory.

“Oh, Theresa.” She wished immediately that she hadn’t said that when she heard the sorrow in his voice. He pulled her into another embrace, and it helped her keep her tears at bay. “I’ll never leave you alone like that again. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. She was grateful for every reassurance she could get that she wouldn’t be left.

He released her from his embrace, only to cup her cheek with his hand. “Darling, I wanted to talk to you about some of the things I said when I was angry.”

She said nothing, almost afraid to hear this. She didn’t think she wanted to go over it all again.

“I told you you were crazy, and that you were too insecure.” She nodded. Yes, she remembered. She’d been hearing the words on a loop in her head ever since. “And then I asked you what was wrong with you.”

Yes, that had been the worst of it. “There are lots of things wrong with me,” she whispered. “I’m—”

Philip held his finger to her lips. “No, there is nothing wrong with you. Nothing whatsoever. Do not start listing out the stuff you don’t like about yourself.”

He got up from his chair to kneel down in front of her, his hands resting on her own knees. “Darling, I should never have said any of that, and I’m so sorry. I was angry, and I’m very sorry.”

She’d known he’d spoken in anger. But… “But is that what you really think? Isn’t that where it came from? It’s what you’ve been thinking, deep down?” Because that had been the worst of it: the realization that the man who had built her self-confidence harbored all the same doubts she did about herself.

“It is _not at all_ what I’m thinking. I said it because I was angry, and I wanted to hurt you. And I’m deeply ashamed of that.”

Theresa could hear the pain in his voice, and it made her believe in his sincerity. But now that the scab that had formed over Thursday’s wound had been ripped off, the words kept pouring out of her.

“I _do_ think there’s a lot wrong with me, though,” she began, her own voice quivering.

“I know, darling, and that’s why I know it hurt you.” He caressed her thigh. “And that’s why I never should have said that. I’m so, so sorry. There is nothing wrong with you. Please don’t tell yourself that.”

She didn’t answer, not quite sure she could speak. “I think you’re _wonderful_ ,” he went on, “and I’m so glad you’re mine. And I’m begging you to forgive me.”

She nodded. “Of course I forgive you!” she said thickly, reaching out to run her fingers through his soft hair. “Of course! I love you.”

They embraced, Philip still on his knees, and held each other for a long moment.

“Will you make love to me tonight?” she asked quietly when they broke apart, her fingers lightly stroking his cheek.

“On two conditions.” He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing each fingertip. “One, that you will not stress about making me happy, and you will let me focus on you and giving _you_ pleasure. And two…must it be tonight?”

She smiled. “I suppose we _are_ already in our pajamas, aren’t we?”

He kissed her, and she kissed back with hunger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to leave this here for now...may or may not do a follow-up or a one-shot of a month or two in the future, but for the moment I think I'm going to end it here. I have another multi-chapter in mind that I'll start working on next, although it may be awhile before I start posting it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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